The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite,a feeling and a love,That had no need of a remoter charmBy thoughts supplied, nor any interestUnborrowed from the eye.

A sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living airAnd the blue sky, and in the mind of man,A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things.